The Santa Klaus Murder

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  Carol came bounding downstairs, ready to go out. She looked charming. I think that’s partly why Patricia likes taking her about and patronising her a bit. Carol looks so distinguished; tall and with movements which I can only describe as well-sprung. She has Hilda’s fine features and marvellous hair, really golden.

  “Aunt Pat!” Carol called reproachfully. “I thought I saw you going upstairs to get ready, and here you are, not dressed at all! The car will be here in a moment. Bingham’s bringing it round.”

  “There was some fuss about a parcel,” Patricia explained meekly. “I came down again to see what it was about. I won’t be a moment.”

  We got the two of them off, and Dittie and David started for Manton in their own Daimler. Father went in the Sunbeam on his round of visits, taking Hilda with him. He always paid a number of calls just before Christmas. I think his friends must have found it a bit of a curse, just when they were getting frantic about their holly and their turkeys and their dinner parties, but our great grandfather was quite famous for his Christmas rides on horseback, when he visited the families all round about and distributed largesse in the villages. Father omitted the largesse, but thought the rest of the custom was praiseworthy and ought to be kept up.

  I had noticed George hovering around and wasn’t surprised when he seized upon me, as soon as the others had all cleared off.

  “Now, you haven’t anything to do,” he declared. “The Portent is seeing to the missing parcel and the holly and the mistletoe and the flowers for the table and father’s correspondence and all the rest of it! I want a talk with you.”

  He settled himself into his favourite arm-chair in the library and assumed his most ponderous manner.

  “Now tell me frankly, Jenny, what you think about Father!”

  I couldn’t help laughing at that. It was so impossible and so George-like.

  “Joking apart; I mean his health and—well, the state of his mind. Strikes me the old man’s aged a lot since his illness.”

  I assured George that I thought father’s illness had very little effect on his general health. He certainly looked rather older; walked a little less certainly, though you couldn’t say he tottered; and was more apt to forget things. Perhaps he got tired more quickly, but one couldn’t be sure of that, because the illness had certainly alarmed him and he took more care of himself than ever. He was now apt to fuss about himself a good deal if he felt tired and was making a habit of resting in an easy chair, with his feet on a stool, in the afternoon.

  “Well, it may be all right,” said George moodily. “You know, Jennifer, I really think it’s the right thing for you to be here with him. I gathered from Hilda that you were a bit restless.”

  I told George that I was fed to the teeth at being told by the rest of the family that it was my duty to stay at home. I told him, as I had told Eleanor and Edith in the summer, that I was quite sure I did nobody any good by remaining at home, and that I didn’t want to argue about it any more. Of course, none of them knew of Philip’s and my plans, but they seem to have got an inkling that something was in the air.

  “All right, Jenny; I don’t want to bother you,” George said. I think he was afraid I would burst into tears, and this insistence on my staying at home was getting on my nerves so much that I almost felt like it. It made me frightened lest our private plans should somehow fall through. All this opposition, though it wasn’t directed actually against my plans, of course, just made everything seem so difficult. I have made lots of plans in the past for getting away from home and making a career for myself and they have never come off, so I am afraid of failure. But with Philip, who’s a very determined person, to help me, surely this plan ought to turn out successfully.

  There was obviously something else that George wanted to say, but didn’t quite know how to put into words.

  “Old Crewkerne hasn’t been here, I suppose?” he inquired at last. Crewkerne is Father’s lawyer.

  “Not that I know of. He easily might come without me knowing,” I pointed out. “The Portent does all Father’s business for him and he never discusses business with me at all. It’s quite hopeless to think I can give you any inside information about Father’s will or anything of that sort.”

  “The girls are worried,” said George.

  “And they’ve urged you to ask me to find out something! It’s not the least use. Hilda’s the only one who might be able to get anything out of Father, and she wouldn’t. The only other thing I can suggest is that you sound Miss Portisham.”

  “Hang it all! I can’t do that!” George protested. “So—so—well, really! Hardly decent!”

  “Look here, George; you can’t have it both ways! You’re all frightfully anxious about Father’s will; you know it’s no use asking him, or you’re afraid to ask him. Well, then, either you must just hope for the best, or else go and see Mr. Crewkerne. If it’s not decent to fish for information in the only waters in which it’s likely to be found, then you’ll have to adopt direct methods or resign yourselves to not knowing.”

  “You don’t understand these things, Jenny. I can’t ask Crewkerne. If father’s absolutely in his right mind—and I see no real grounds for supposing that he’s not—then Crewkerne wouldn’t tell me anything. In fact, I couldn’t ask him. It’s all very well for you to be so off-hand; you don’t understand the value of money!”

  Little he knew about that! Philip had been rubbing it in for a long time because he was afraid that I was going to find it hard to manage on the little we should have. We weren’t worrying about it any longer because we had decided that was no use and we were ready to take the plunge. I couldn’t explain all this to George, so I just pointed out that he needn’t worry for himself. Father was so keen about the family going on and Flaxmere being kept up properly, he was sure to provide for George.

  “All very well for you, with no responsibilities, to talk about not worrying,” George grumbled. “The old man’s more touchy than ever about money, and things aren’t too easy with three kids. Kit’s prep school fees are bad enough, but when it comes to Eton, Heaven knows how we shall manage.”

  George is now managing director of the family biscuits, and I have always gathered that he draws an enormous salary in return for lounging into an office now and then and slapping people on the back and signing cheques.

  He went on. “It’s the horses. Don’t know what’s come to horses nowadays! Don’t run true to form!”

  I told him he was a fool to lose money on the Turf, because we have all heard Father talk in his most moralising way of how his own Father did the same and nearly wrecked the whole family. Father would never make good what George had lost by that method.

  “Besides, it’s not only that,” George went on. “It’s the possibility of scandal. How would you like it if you found he’d left practically everything to that woman? I don’t mean only the loss of your whack, but the gossip and all that?”

  I reminded George again of how keen Father was about Flaxmere being kept in the family. “Besides,” I said, “he must have a tremendous lot of money. I don’t see why you all get into such a fuss about the possibility of him leaving a good fat legacy to Miss Portisham. ‘To my faithful secretary, in gratitude for ten years’ devoted service.’ That sort of thing. Lots of people do it. There’s enough to go round.”

  “Of course,” George explained, “none of us would raise any objection to a suitable legacy. It’s something much more—well, sensational—that we’re afraid of.”

  “But really, George,” I protested. “I don’t believe Father considers her at all as a woman. She’s a very useful machine. You’ve no idea what a treasure she is, looking after everything and getting things done and keeping Father in a good temper!”

  “That’s just it! She’s got him completely in her toils.”

  “Rubbish!” I insisted. “It’s not as if he had any difficulty in keeping h
er here. I believe she really likes being here; she loves running the house and managing. I often think she must be frightfully lonely, but that’s only my idea. She doesn’t seem to mope.”

  “Lonely?” asked George, horrified.

  “Yes; she has no friends. She’s rather better class than the servants and she sees very little of anyone else. I really don’t know what she does in her free time. She sits in her room a good deal, I think; and she sometimes goes for walks alone. I took her to the W.I., thinking that might interest her, but she’s too towny; she doesn’t get on with the village people and is awfully afraid of losing her dignity. But it’s a ghastly life for her. After all, she’s under thirty!”

  George guffawed. Of course, he always laughs at the W.I. “By Jove! I’m almost sorry for Miss Portisham! Taking her to a mothers’ meeting to brighten her life! I must say, I’d never thought of it like this. It only makes the situation more dangerous, to my mind. But I suppose the woman can go into Bristol if she likes? Movies and theatres and shops and all that sort of thing.”

  “But she’s all alone, if she does go. Of course, there’s Bingham. You remember it was Miss Portisham who produced him; he comes from her part of the world. At first I thought she was walking out with him, or whatever the equivalent is in Miss Portisham’s station of life. But I don’t think they’ve been about together much lately.”

  “By Jove! If we could marry her off to Bingham, that’d solve the problem. They could live in the coachman’s cottage and she could trot round every day and run the household! But you think that’s off? Looks bad.”

  George really was obsessed with this idea of the danger of Miss Portisham. I thought I might divert his mind by returning to a point I had already mentioned.

  “Father isn’t interested in Miss Portisham,” I urged. “Not a bit. All their conversation is frightfully formal. ‘Have this done, Miss Portisham.’ ‘Yes, Sir Osmond.’ Portisham has picked up good manners and all that sort of thing, but she doesn’t talk; not like a human being.”

  “You don’t know how they talk when you’re not there,” George pointed out.

  I was sure it was just the same, whether I was there or not. If you go into a room where people are having an intimate conversation and they have to change the tone of it suddenly because you are there, you can always feel something in the atmosphere. A suspense; and a sort of tingling; as if their personalities had not got back properly into their shells of convention. I tried to explain this to George, but he wasn’t really convinced.

  “You don’t understand these things, Jenny,” he told me in his most fatherly manner. “Girls never do. Some men, especially elderly men, never marry a woman because what you call her personality interests them. They don’t want her to make clever conversation. Miss Portisham is a good-looking girl; you must admit that. You just think of her as an efficient secretary, but any man can see that she’s got a good figure and a good skin and nice hair. She’s not my type, but, mind you, she’d be attractive to some men. You can’t tell me that a girl of her age, with her figure, never thinks of getting married, not to mention marrying a rich man. And you say yourself that she sees no one.”

  Of course I’d heard this sort of talk before; it always disgusts me rather and I can’t believe that Father would think of Miss Portisham like that. I told George so.

  “Then there’s this affair with Bingham. Apart from anything else, Father wouldn’t want to lose his invaluable secretary. If he noticed anything between her and Bingham, he might be pretty keen to stop it.”

  “But you’ve just said yourself that they could live here and Mrs. Bingham could still run Flaxmere,” I pointed out.

  “Father mightn’t see it that way. He might think she’d want to leave and he’d begin by telling her that she ought to do better for herself than that, and then he’d think of a sure way of keeping her here. I tell you, I don’t like the situation.”

  “I’m sick of talking about it,” I told him. “I can’t do anything; I don’t think that anything need be done, and I won’t do anything. If you’re really worried, the best thing you can do is to work it so that Father asks Hilda to come and live here. She is a companion to him, which I’m not; she could run the house very well, which I can’t; she’d be the best possible antidote.”

  “By Jove!” said George. “That might be a solution!”

  At least I had given George something new to think about. I warned him to be careful in anything he might say to Hilda. If she thought he was hatching a plot to coerce Father, she’d shy right off.

  As far as I was concerned, I felt sorrier than ever for Miss Portisham. But the important thing about this conversation is that it shows how worried and uncertain George was about Father’s will. He wouldn’t want anything to happen to Father just then because he was afraid the will might produce “sensational revelations,” but he did see a ray of hope in the idea of Hilda coming to Flaxmere, and he would be only too anxious to get that arranged and trust to her influence with Father to make the world safe for Melburys.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday

  by Mildred Melbury (Aunt Mildred)

  Those days of waiting for Christmas, after the family has collected at Flaxmere, are always difficult. The children are excited and noisy and everyone is on edge, being afraid that things won’t go smoothly and that Christmas Day will not be quite the festival of good will which we have a right to expect. Of course, none of us anticipated the shocking tragedy which was to occur, but I always do feel that families which have once broken up are best kept separate. There can be occasional visits, of course, but to attempt to bring everyone together again in the same happy family atmosphere they enjoyed as children is to my mind a mistake. And of course the “in-laws” complicate matters; not that Patricia and David and Gordon are not all very nice people, but they are not part of our own family, properly speaking, and cannot be expected to fit in perfectly. That, however, is only my own opinion; no criticism is intended, and of course my poor brother arranged things in his own house as he saw fit, though there is no knowing how far he may have been influenced by those who were scheming for their own ends.

  As far as I am concerned, I am always glad to come back to Flaxmere. I am trying to describe the events of Tuesday—Christmas Eve—as they seemed to me at the time, so I will endeavour to write as if the terrible happening that took place on Christmas Day had never occurred. But I must emphasize that although there was a certain uneasiness in the party, as I have tried to explain, there was nothing, nothing whatever, to make me suspect for a moment that such a dastardly blow against my poor brother was even then being planned. For planned beforehand it certainly must have been.

  Eleanor, with her husband, Gordon Stickland, and her two children, Osmond and little Anne, were the last of the party to arrive. That is to say they were the last of the family party, for Philip Cheriton came on Monday afternoon, and Mr. Witcombe on Tuesday morning. Eleanor and her family came from London by train on Monday, in time for lunch. If I had a favourite among the children—which at least I tried never to show when I took the place of their poor mother after her death in 1920—I think it was Eleanor. Hilda was married by then; in fact, she was already a widow; so I never knew her so well. Perhaps Dittie has more character, but she was not an easy girl to advise. Eleanor was always more easy to control; indeed she seemed to wait for advice and guidance before taking any definite step. Eleanor was the beauty of the family, very like her dear mother, with the same dark eyes and soft dark hair.

  Everyone noticed, even on Monday, that Eleanor seemed worried. They noticed it because it is unlike her. She has always been the quietest of the girls, after Hilda; taking things as they are and never making mountains out of molehills. But now we all saw that Eleanor was distrait and sometimes didn’t notice when people spoke to her. I don’t consider that there is any need to make a great mystery of this or to look for any secret and sini
ster cause. Eleanor had been through a lot of anxiety, with her nurse—such an excellent woman—leaving her so suddenly and at such an awkward season and the difficulty of finding a new one to bring to Flaxmere. And of course it came out later that the new nurse held very unorthodox religious views and doubtless Eleanor knew it already, but too late to make a change, and only hoped that there might be no unpleasant results. But naturally such a devoted mother as Eleanor would be anxious about her children’s moral welfare under those circumstances, and to add to her difficulty the new nurse was a very striking-looking girl. Rather a flashy type, I consider, with red hair; even the best of men and most devoted of husbands and fathers cannot avoid noticing a girl of that sort when she flaunts her charms under his very nose. Nurse Bryan flaunted naturally; she would probably have flaunted whilst walking in her sleep. And the knowledge that the girl had no Christian principles to restrain her, probably increased Eleanor’s anxiety.

  I must emphasize the fact that I have not witnessed anything unfitting between Gordon Stickland and Nurse Bryan. Gordon is a gentleman and, moreover, he is still in love with Eleanor. But he is the kind of man whom women can never resist, and he seems to regard a light-hearted flirtation with any pretty and lively woman as an everyday recreation. Eleanor understands him perfectly and, being sure of his affection, does not worry about his indiscretions. But her poor father, my brother Osmond, was a stern man and always ready to be critical of those who had married into his family. He would be the first to notice some foolish banter or frivolous glance passing between Gordon and Nurse Bryan, and then it would not be surprising if he caused a good deal of unpleasantness by rebuking Gordon before all the others. It was the danger of this possibility that was weighing on Eleanor’s mind; of that I feel certain. One could not help noticing how she watched her husband and, in the midst of conversation with others, she would withdraw her attention, become oblivious to what they were saying, because she heard Gordon’s voice and was all ears to know whom he was talking to and in what vein.